


Nightcap

by loststardust



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Characters with History, F/M, Mutual Pining, Reliance, cute sad, i hate trying to tag things, very mild sexy time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26231773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loststardust/pseuds/loststardust
Summary: It's the evening of Tommy's wedding. You're tired, drunk, and ready for sleep; but, there's a knock at your door, and Arthur is the only late night visitor you'll never turn away.
Relationships: Arthur Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Shelby/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Nightcap

The wedding, as you’d expected, was not a usual occasion. It was beautiful to start with, romantic. Tommy and Grace’s union was the smoothest part. It was the events afterwards that had become complicated, draining. Arthur’s speech, the Russians, Peaky boys and soldiers fighting in the gardens… It was too tiring to put any real order to it all. You don’t know if you even enjoyed yourself yet - you can work that out once the hangover has passed.

Before he’d disappeared, Tommy had said you could stay in one of the guest rooms and, well, after the amount of champagne you’d had, you weren’t in any position to decline. You’d lasted until the early hours and then excused yourself, leaving the party-stragglers behind in favour of the quiet upstairs. The night dripped off of you with each step. Aches from socialising, and dancing, and diffusing arguments that meant nothing, fell away from you on the stairs. Your shoulders grew light on the landing. 

By the time you were in your room, all that was left to remove of the evening was the dress and jewellery that you’d bought specially. After stripping that back, so you stood in just your under-slip, you were truly ready to call it quits.

Now you’re lying flat on your back, wilfully sinking into the bed you’ve been assigned, and the room feels like a prize. A commendation medal for taking part.

You are never one to say no to a party, but they don’t half drain you. Throw a handful of Shelbys into the mix and the whole thing becomes a struggle. Not one you’re bitter of, though, just one that requires a little more recovery time. Something you’d factored in from the start. In the morning you’d go home, spend the day with yourself, and then you’d be right again. Enough charge in you to handle whatever came next and, within this circle, there always is something next.

The ceiling above you is spinning, so you close your eyes and start counting slowly. You’ve had enough to drink that sleep is unlikely, but you can at least try to lull yourself into a less sea-worthy state.

On the twelfth count there’s a light knock on your door. The rhythm’s irregular enough that you can tell the knocker isn’t confident in their approach, their almost-regret is printed into the pattern. Limply, you pull away from the bed, unfolding yourself until you’re upright. You don’t bother looking for something to cover your skin, whoever it is knows the hour as well as you do - if they expected decency, they wouldn’t have come.

‘Yeah, coming,’ you call, though you’re already at the door. You pause there, hand on the doorknob, to blink a few times. The alcohol’s left you in a foggy state. Somewhere between bliss and exhaustion. When willing it away does nothing, you pull the door open and greet your visitor. 

‘Oh, hello.’ Your voice is lighter once you see him, your welcome an easy one. ‘I thought you’d gone to bed.’

Arthur’s leaning a shoulder on the wall to the left of the doorway, half his body is in front of you, half of it’s hidden. He’s either that drunk that he needs the support, or he’s unable to bring himself before you completely. Perhaps it’s both. He does always get shy once the whiskey takes him over the peak.

‘Yeah, well, I did,’ he mumbles, looking at the flask in his hands. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t bother you.’

You try to smile but your cheeks don’t quite get the memo. He’s still dressed, in his waistcoat and dress-shirt. His shoes are still on. Any attempt he’d made to sleep was obviously unsuccessful and fleeting. You didn’t need to ask why he’d come to you instead, the both of you knew the answer well enough.

‘It’s okay,’ you tell him, ‘I couldn’t sleep either. Do you want to come in?’

He sighs, relieved, and finally lifts his head to look at you. ‘Yeah, yeah, thanks, love.’

You shrug and step aside to let him in, shutting the door behind him. It won’t be the first sleepless night you’ve spent together. If it wasn’t him coming to you, it was the other way around, though you’d never admit that to anyone. Whatever relationship had formed between the two of you was kept just there. No-one knew that he’d ring you when the trouble in his head was too loud, or that it was his bed you went to when the loneliness began to ache. No-one knew that you met, and then met again. Or that you kissed, and you talked, and you touched each other like you knew the person beneath. It was all secret. All quiet, and tucked away for when one of you needed it.

‘What a night, ey?’ He mutters, walking toward nothing in particular. ‘Tommy, married. Bloody married.’ His head shakes like he can’t believe it still.

You hum, watching his back, silhouetted against the lamp on the bedside. He was your first, all those years ago, and for a while sex was all it was, but then you got attached - you and him. It clung to the both of you even now. You haven’t been alone with him in months, but it’s no surprise that a day like today would bring him back to you.

‘Makes me think,’ he continues, glancing over his shoulder to breathe a laugh that doesn’t meet his eyes. ‘This wedding, s’got me all reflective and shit. Couldn’t settle.’

‘I know what you mean.’ The wedding had set your own mind into overdrive, each romantic mistake you’ve made and every regret you had, has been swilling in your head since they said I do. You sigh and walk around him to sit on the bed. ‘Feels like it’s all getting away from us, doesn’t it, Arthur?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’ He grumbles, then takes a swig from his flask. From the height he lifts it, you know it’s the last drop, and that can only be a good thing.

‘Maybe one day it’ll be us,’ you say, only half-joking. ‘Before we’re old.’

He nods but his eyes are sad. The drink’s left him in the ditch, lost with thoughts he never addresses, questions he’ll never find answers for. He’s standing hopeless in the middle of the room and it melts you. Sinks you right in the chest.

‘I shouldn’t have come,’ he says, ‘it’s not fair to ya.’

‘Arthur, you know I’d never turn you away.’

‘I know, I know. That’s not right though, is it? Always me expectin’ it from you.’

You hold your hand out, over the end of the bed toward him. ‘Come here.’ When he doesn’t move, you wave it slightly and tell him again. ‘I’m asking you, I want you here,’ you say. ‘You’re letting the whiskey tell you things that aren’t true.’

He sighs loudly, but obliges eventually, his feet dragging on the rug as he comes. ‘Never does any fuckin’ good,’ he says, tucking the flask into his pocket. ’S’posed to be off the stuff.’

‘Start again tomorrow,’ you reply, as he arrives in front of you, one hand wrapped around yours. ‘You’ve been doing well so far.’ You smile up at him as you speak, finding it easy once he’s there, with his thighs against your knees. ‘It’s a wedding, Arthur, people drink.’

He snorts, swinging your joined hands by his side. ‘Always know just what to say, hm? Always got somethin’ in that head, waiting for me.’

You did, though it was him that put it there. Years of conversation, hours spent understanding one another, left traces of him and what he needed between every thought you had. It was never an effort to soothe him, never anything outside of yourself.

‘What, like you aren’t counting on it?’ You smirk.

‘Like fucking clockwork,’ he replies, and from the way he’s looking at you, you know what will come next. You know he’ll bend at the waist to kiss you, eager like he needs it - because he does, and so do you.

With your free hand, you hold his face and stand to meet his lips before he can move himself. Without hesitation, his hands settle on your waist, holding you close enough to feel his buttons through the silk of your slip. He tastes like liquor, and cigarettes, but it’s familiar. Fulfilling, like water after drought.

When he breaks away, it’s only to push you onto the bed. He guides you both, hands never leaving your sides, until you’re lay on your back with him over you. You fit together naturally. You always have. You watch as he bends your leg, inviting you to wrap yourself around him even further, his fingers running down your thigh like he’s discovering it for the first time.

‘I’ve missed you,’ you say, tracing your thumb across his cheek.

His eyes fall closed, face tilting until the weight of it’s resting in your palm. A quiet breath slips from his lips. ‘Y’know,’ he says gently, ‘when you touch me, I feel a little less broken.’

‘I know.’ You understand. What fixes him, fixes you just the same. ‘I was thinking it too.’

Arthur nods. He’s holding your wrist, keeping your hand in place, his thumb rubbing up and down the veins there. With him against you, it’s the quietest you’ve felt all night. It’s no different for him. 

The room isn’t turning now; your mind is doing so little that you’ve almost forgotten where you are. ‘What would they say,’ you muse, ‘if they knew you were in here? With me?’

‘John knows,’ he replies, eyes-closed and still. ‘Saw me in the hall.’

‘Oh.’ Of the brothers, that was the least worrisome to know, but the most annoying. ‘Did he say anything?’

Arthur shakes his head, pausing to kiss your palm before letting it drop. He looks at you again, relieved this time, like he’s resurfacing from a dream just to find that it’s real. ‘Where was I, ay?’ he says, his voice light and easy through half-smiling lips. He bends over you, kissing your mouth and then down your neck to your chest.

‘You don’t think he’ll tell someone?’ you ask, too distracted to enjoy it. ‘John?’

‘Nah, he’s too pissed to remember.’ He litters the words across your skin, his breath hot and lingering.

It’s enough to soothe you. The last you saw John, he was face down on the sofa, his empty glass on the floor by his shoes. You’re surprised he was even up and walking about afterwards.

‘Arthur.’ You push back on his shoulders, until he stops and lifts his head again. ‘If you’re going to do that,’ you say, teasing, ‘can you at least lose the gun? It’s digging into me.’

He grins, devilment glittering in his eyes. ‘Gun? What gun?’

You laugh, head back against the mattress, and he stands to pull the weapon from his waistband. Once it’s set on the bedside, he’s on you again. He kisses you hungrily this time, hard enough that his moustache begins to rub, but you don’t mind. You welcome the feeling of it. It’s rough, just like him.

Your ankles cross behind his back, your slip rolling to sit above your waist. He’s still dressed but you can’t find the time to change it. Your fingers cling to his shirt, his hands to your neck, to your breasts. You’re devouring each other before it’s even really begun. It’s been long enough that it feels new, or at least reinvented.

Tiring of the position, you shift to the left and he takes the hint, letting you roll him until you’re on top. You sit back, straddling his lap. He stares up at you like you’re gold, touchable, malleable gold. The expression’s so honest that it’s almost convincing.

‘I want this,’ he pants. ‘Always.’

‘Then have it always,’ you answer. ‘I’m yours if you say it, Arthur.’

You know he won’t, so you bend to press kisses along his jaw, chasing the flush that rises.

After that, there’s no more talking. You melt into one another, fucking like you’re in love, and then you sleep. You properly sleep. It’s always the best when he’s beside you, always undisturbed and deep like you’re sedated. You know it’s the same for him; he’s said before that he only ever dreams when you’re there, and that they’re always nice, gentle.

‘Works better than any fuckin’ thing the doctor gives me,’ he says. ‘Makes me forget I’m no good.’

And you believe him, why wouldn’t you? You’re no different. You’ve been self-medicating with his company since you were twenty. Prescribing yourself his affection like it’s free, like it comes without ties and consequences. But it does, every time. Even now. 

When you wake up, he isn’t there, and it undoes it all.

**Author's Note:**

> something i posted to tumblr but am reposting here for the ao3 crowd xx


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